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GOERING'S AMNESTY

A WEEK after the elections the Hubertshofer Beobachter carried the report that, in recognition of the excellent spirit displayed in the balloting, the government would release a large number of political prisoners. The Leader had promised an amnesty. For the next few weeks we could talk of nothing but this "act of grace," as it was called in the press. Most of the prisoners regarded the whole affair as another Nazi swindle; yet not one of them but cherished a faint hope that there might be something in it.

All sorts of rumors ran like wildfire through the camp. Thc Secret Police of Berlin, it was said, had asked for information as to the number of Berliners in camp and the record of each one's behavior. The Prussian prefects had been instructed to prepare lists of the prisoners who came from their districts and to send these lists to the ministry of the interior. For the time, the only tangible outcome of the announcement was that the administration of our camp suspended all releases. It did not want to run short of material. On the ground that the Secret Police intended to concern themselves with collective releases only in order to impress upon the prisoners the significance of the event, all individual releases were indefinitely postponed.

We read in the Hubertshof Observer that it was Goering, the Prussian Premier, with whom the idea of amnesty had originated. "Lametta Hermann" ¹ the resplendent, foe of vivisection and the Jewish method of slaughtering cattle, felt that the time had come to extend love of animals to his prisoners in the concentration camps.

Toward the end of November the camp administration took stock. A general inspection was called, and as each prisoner stepped forward in answer to his name he was questioned as to the date and reason of his arrest. It transpired in the process that the names of prisoners who had been transferred to other camps months before were still being carried on the rolls, that newly admitted prisoners had not been registered, that August Muller was serving the three-year prison term to which Karl Muller had been sentenced, and that several of the names could no longer be identified at all, since their bearers had mysteriously vanished.

Many of the prisoners were at a loss as to how to reply to the roll-calling officer's demand for the reason of their arrest. Whereupon he would pretend great indignation

"What? You don't know what you were arrested for? Then you haven't been here long enough. We'll give you time to find out. Next!"

Those who followed learned to reply that they had been taken into protective custody because they were Communists, Social-Democrats, pacifists, or Jews. Those unfortunates who could give no such plausible reason for their enmity to the state invented political crimes to justify their presence in camp. A favorite self-accusation was one's failure to salute the swastika flag. The slander of Hugenberg ² also recurred at intervals. Those unable to hit upon any idea at all were set down as impenitents, barred as a matter of course from any share in the mercy of the Third Reich.

The inventory, which dragged along over a period of several days, was followed by weeks of inaction. It was during that interval that a group of foreign journalists visited the camp. Word of the impending visit was received on the afternoon preceding it, and two hundred prisoners were assigned to Schinderknecht to put the camp into proper order. The latrines were emptied and sprinkled with lime. Thirty prisoners crawled on their knees about the courtyard, plucking out all the little blades of grass. The wet walls of the sleeping quarters were rubbed dry and the windows cleaned till even the opaque panes of the former wine cellar admitted a mild gleam of light. Our beds were provided with fresh sheets for the first time in four months and all the counterpanes were gathered up and spread over the pallets of Company One the parade company which was always put on display for inspections. At evening roll call the stormleader alluded to the importance of the next day's visit as a means of suppressing the atrocity lies abroad.

A number of the work squads were kept at camp the following day, ours among them. We had to wash the guard rooms, scrub the steps, polish the motor cars, clean up the shops. We learned from the troopers that the foreign journalists would be accompanied by a high official of the Secret Police, Diels himself in all likelihood. At noon we smelled the delicious odor of broiling meat, but it came from the SS cauldron. At about four two huge Mercedes-Benz automobiles drove into the courtyard. The commandant rushed out of the Administration Building to welcome the gentlemen. He personally acted as their guide. The journalists inspected Company One's quarters, cast a glance into the dining room where we were all lined up, and nodded approval of the spick and span kitchen and the fat SS cooks who for this special occasion put on white aprons for the first time. The commandant explained that the government was trying with true Prussian simplicity, economy, and cleanliness to undo the spiritual harm worked upon the people by fourteen years of Marxian agitation. The camp, he said, was not a penal but an educational institution for his countrymen who had been led astray. One of the correspondents asked for permission to interview the prisoners.

"By all means," the commandant hastened to reply. "Froben," he added to the adjutant standing beside him. "Get Froben." Froben was a prisoner who knew foreign languages; but he was a stoolpigeon.

The commandant introduced him to the journalist.

"This man," he said, "is a prisoner himself and will act as interpreter, so that you'll be sure to get the prisoners' exact meaning."

The journalist approached an elderly prisoner. "Why were you arrested?"

"I was a Communist."

Discreetly the commandant and the rest of the officers withdrew a few paces.

"He was a Communist," translated the stoolpigeon.

"Was the Communist Party illegal at that time?" asked the journalist.

"Is the Communist Party illegal at this time?" translated the stoolpigeon.

"You misunderstood my question," remarked the journalist pleasantly in fluent German. "I asked the gentleman whether the Communist Party was illegal at the time he belonged to it."

The stoolpigeon stammered an apology.

"No," said the prisoner.

"Were you guilty of any other political offense?" The journalist addressed the prisoner in German.

"No."

"Then you're here simply because you belonged to a party which opposed the party now in power?"

The prisoner remained silent.

"Have you any complaint to make of the treatment you receive?"

"No."

"Do you know of cases where prisoners under protective arrest have been subjected to corporal punish?"

"I know nothing."

"Are you telling the truth?" asked the journalist.

"'Don't ask such stupid questions," murmured the prisoner.

The journalist was taken aback for a moment, but quickly recovered his equanimity. "That's all I want to know," he said courteously. "Thank you very much."

He rejoined the group which was listening to the commandant hold forth.

"Are you satisfied with the interview?" the commandant asked.

"Thanks very much, yes. May I ask whether you keep members of former opposing parties here, even though there's no specific charge against them?"

"No. If we do have any such cases they represent particularly active and dangerous elements who, we must assume, would continue their subversive activity even under the National-Socialist regime."

"And how long do you keep such prisoners?"

"Until we're convinced that under our influence their sentiments have changed."

"And how do you determine that such a change has taken place?"

"Oh, one can't mistake the evidence. We watch each prisoner's behavior--how he conducts himself at work, whether he complies with camp regulations willingly, what society he seeks, and so on."

Thc journalist walked up to a prisoner, and asked in German:

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"What is your trade?"

"I'm a farm hand."

"What were you arrested for?"

"I chased the landowner's son out of the house."

"How do you mean? You chased him out of his own house?"

"No. Out of ours."

"What was he doing in your house?"

"We live in tenants' quarters."

"What's that?"

"The house belongs to the estate. We're allowed to live there as long as we work on the estate."

"I don't understand. What has that to do with your arrest ?"

"He was one of the SA."

"And you?"

"I didn't belong to any political organization."

"Was your family active in politics?"

"My father."

"In what party?"

"He was with the Steel Helmets."

The journalist turned to the commandant. "How do you explain this case, sir?" he asked.

"Your name?" the commandant barked at the prisoner.

"Kalmeit."

"Polack?"

"No."

"And you're trying to tell us that you're here simply because of a personal quarrel with a Storm Trooper?"

"No," stammered the lad. "He was a stormleader "

The commandant turned to the adjutant. "Documents in the case of Prisoner Kalmeit, please."

A painful silence ensued. Kalmeit stood like a tree,his broad peasant face white and sweaty. He knew as well as any of us what he was in for, once the journalists were gone. The troopleader whom the adjutant had sent to the Administration Building returned empty-handed.

"I'm sorry," the commandant explained to the journalist. "The documents haven't been sent on to us yet. Thc prefect of his district still has them."

"How long has Herr Kalmeit been in camp?" inquired the journalist.

"How long have you been here?" asked the commandant.

"This is the nineteenth week," the boy said.

"About four months," the commandant replied.

"Would it be possible for me to see the record you keep of the prisoners' conduct?"

The commandant's affable countenance turned several shades more official. "Very sorry--material of that kind is strictly confidential." His mood had chilled. "The gentlemen," he continued, his tone perceptibly cooler, "have seen all the essentials. We have nothing to conceal. I am sure I can rely on the strict accuracy of any reports to appear in your esteemed newspapers."

The journalists left. They had been shown neither the regular coop nor the standing coops; they knew nothing of the "coordination" ceremonies in the Police Department; they could hardly suspect that the moment the camp gate had been closed behind them Kalmeit would be thrashed with the blackjack by the commandant himself and locked up in the standing coop; they had a dim notion that the records kept by the camp administration didn't wholly conform with the principles of Prussian order and exactitude. All that they knew with any certainty was that, should their "esteemed newspapers" abroad print a single word in criticism of the educational institutions of the Third Reich, they would be promptly banned from Germany.

The Hubertshofer Beobachter reported that the amnesty would be extended to cover five thousand prisoners under protective arrest and that Premier Goering had expressed a desire to have the investigation speeded up so that the men released might be able to spend the Christmas holidays in the bosom of their families.

We also read that in other camps the amnesty was already being put into effect. Our administration remained inactive. The nearer Christmas approached the fainter grew our hopes.

Unrest spread through the camp. Many of the prisoners had been separated from their families since March and April, with no news as to their welfare, as to how they were struggling through the winter, as to whether they had the most necessary articles of food. The weather had been good until November; then a bitter cold set in. It was still dark when we set out to work in the morning and we were frozen stiff. We had no coats, our shabby clothes had been reduced in the course of the summer to rags, our shoes were torn, and the watery gruel they gave us to eat was miserably inadequate for the hard physical labor we had to do. The rainy days were the worst. The moisture penetrated the cellar and water trickled down the walls, the stench of the straw pallets was abominable, and the dirt-stiffened sheets were always damp to the touch. We had no opportunity of drying our wet clothes and shoes. On one occasion our guards made the experiment of quitting work earlier than usual. They met with a handsome reception from Schinderknecht, who made us march all the way back, two hours to the dyke, two hours for the return trip to camp. The guards, soaked to the skin despite their military cloaks, swore furiously. We were not asked to do any more shoveling that day. They invited us all to the fire to warm ourselves.

Among the Black Shirts newly enrolled in the guard as a result of the events following the dismissal of troopers from the first watch was a man of about twenty-six, tall, blond, blue-eyed, as though he had been cut to measure from the Nazi race pattern. On severa1 occasions I had noticed that he was watching me. One day I was waiting for the return of the handcar which was being hauled up the embankment slope by eight fellow prisoners to be dumped at the top. The blond SS-man spoke to me, asking what my name was, what I'd been arrested for, and whether there was any prospect of my being released at Christmas time.

As the comrades with the handcar approached, he withdrew a few paces; when I had shoveled it full of earth again and the others had started up the slope with it he approached me once more and continued the conversation.

Had I ever been in Russia? Was it really possible to get work there? I told him that depended on one's training. A metal worker or an electrical engineer would unquestionably find employment there. Since I did not know what he was driving at, o was extremely reserved. It struck me that he addressed me as Sie, whereas we were ordinarily addressed as Du by both officers and men. Did I plan to return to Russia after my release? I thought, "That's what he is trying to get out of me."

"No," I said.

"You needn't be afraid of me," he said. Then he went over to the neighboring squad and didn't come near me for the rest of the day.

For a whole week he was on duty with other squads and I didn't see him. The next time he was assigned to us I was one of the eight men hauling the handcar while another fellow did the shoveling. While the handcar was being loaded the guard told me to look after the fire and pile up some fresh wood. I realized that he was anxious to get me to himself for a while but I gave him no encouragement. The devil knew what lay behind it all. When we were returning our tools to the construction shed that afternoon I happened to be standing a few paces from the others, and as he passed he slipped a cigarette into my coat pocket.

"There's a ban on smoking," I said, looking him straight in the eye. There seemed to be something fishy about the whole affair.

"You know your own business," he replied and went to join the other guards. I managed to get rid of the cigarette on the way home. Maybe they were trying to catch me in the act of breaking camp regulations. By this time I had grown uneasy and that evening I told the Schieber the whole story. He advised me to make no change in the line of conduct I had laid down for myself.

"Let him make the overtures. You'll be able to tell soon enough whether he's the real thing. And if there's anything rotten behind it, you can't be too careful."

A few nights later I woke to discover that the light in our sleeping quarters had been turned on. The guard was passing slowly between the rows of beds, reading the names of prisoners chalked on the bunks. It was my SS-man. I didn't know whether he had seen me; he made no sign but walked slowly out of the cellar again and turned out the light.

I could not get back to deep. What did he want? I recalled the questions he had put to me and the replies I had made. They could not twist a halter out of them to hang me with. Maybe it was something quite different.

Shortly before Christmas a closed military-police car drove into the camp yard and a Storm Trooper, drenched in blood, was removed from it. It was said at first that he had been attacked by Communists. But when he was placed in the sleeping quarters assigned to special prisoners we knew what was wrong with him. The special prisoners were SA- or SS-men detained in camp for the commission of such offenses as drunkenness, overstaying their leave, and fighting-but also for breaches of political trust. Their sleeping quarters were separated from ours, and there was much bad feeling between them and the regular prisoners-far more, for example, than existed between the prisoners and some of the troopers. This particular SA-man was kept in camp for two days only; then an ambulance took him away. What happened to him eventually we were never able to discover

The next time my SS-man was on duty with our squad 1 decided to give him an opening for conversation. I was anxious to see whether he would be willing to discuss this incident with me. On our way to work I asked my neighbors who was doing the shoveling that day. Shoveling was the most difficult part of the work and we took it in turn, everyone doing his best to get out of it.

"It's your turn today, Heinrich," a number of the prisoners informed him.

"What?" cried Heinrich, little elated at the prospect. "Me again?"

"Never mind," I said. "I'll shovel today."

'What's wrong with you, man?" gibed the others. "Got more energy than you know what to do with?"

"Bravo, Karl," Heinrich said. "Some day I'll spit in your soup.

This time it was I who started the conversation with the blond guard.

"What was the matter with the SA-man they brought in a few days ago-the one that was taken off in the ambulance?"

"He betrayed a secret order given him by the standard bearer."

"Betrayed? Whom could he betray it to? Some foreign country?"

"Do you think there's no one in this country who's interested in a certain kind of information?"

"That depends on the kind of information you mean."

"Well, in this case he was supposed to have notified the Communists of some imminent action to be taken by the Secret Police."

"Is that so?" I remarked incredulously. "Well, he may have just dropped a remark that was passed on in some distorted form. That sort of thing happens all the time."

"Possibly, but one can't be too careful."

The handcar approached. We lapsed into silence. One can't be too careful. What did he mean by that? Who can't be too careful? Our comrades who were working among the Black Shirts and the Storm Troopers? Or was it just a general statement? Like me, he avoided any explicit remarks. This wasn't the sort of language ordinarily used by an SS-man or a provocateur.

"Do you come from Berlin?" he asked, when the handcar had disappeared over the crest of the slope.

"I was born in Dusseldorf, but I lived in Berlin for a long time."

"You're an electrical engineer. Do you know Franz Helling by any chance?"

I was startled. But I only said, "Franz Helling, Franz Helling? The name seems familiar to me somehow, but I can't place it at the moment."

"I thought you might know him," he said casually. "He knows you. And we happened to be talking about you recently."

"Is he the fellow who worked with me at Siemens-Schuckert? A tall, dark chap?"

"That's right-that's the one I mean."

"Yes, I know him very well."

"He sent you his greetings."

"Thank you.'

"I'll probably see him when I go home at Christmas time. Shall I give him any message?"

"If you'll be so kind. Tell him I'm waiting for the amnesty-I may be affected. If not, perhaps he could help me find a lawyer to speed up my release."

"Good. I'll do that. My name, by the way, is Julius Stetten.

We had no further conversation that day, but what we'd had was more than enough for me. Did Stetten know who Franz Helling was? Was he working hand and glove with him? Was he one of us? I was more and more inclined to believe so. On the other hand, it might all be part of a far-flung plan to trap us. I mustn't implicate anyone else in the affair for the present. I discussed it only with the Schieber, and we decided to wait until after Christmas before taking the initiative.

Our hopes for some action under the amnesty were kept alive only by the realization that in four weeks not a single prisoner had been released. But when the comrades learned that the camp police had been holding forty-six release orders for a period of over two weeks, their restiveness increased.

The prisoners were more deeply embittered over this arbitrary procedure of the camp administration than over the basic injustice of the whole idea of "protective custody." You had to make the best of your imprisonment under the circumstances and it would have been futile to waste any words over it. But that a subordinate authority should fail to comply with instructions issued by the ministry lashed them to a fury. It was during those days before Christmas that the idea of engineering their own release took form in many minds.

Thus the festival of love drew near, pervading the camp with its spirit. Schinderknecht bad ordered our work squad to get a Christmas tree for the dining room, knowing full well that we should have to steal it from the government forest. The commandant suspended the ban on visitors and smoking, and sent out word that the prisoners might have their musical instruments shipped or brought them from home. We were allowed to stay up till nine-thirty. On Christmas Eve the commandant, escorted by his staff, passed through the camp and with his own hand opened the locks of the coop doors--a Nazi Christ Child with a paunch and the Iron Cross, Second Class.

Visiting time for our company was fixed for the half hour between four and four-thirty on the afternoon of Christmas Day. I wasn't expecting anyone from home but someone might come from Berlin. I tried to suppress my hopes, however, lest I be too deeply disappointed.

Christmas Day, beginning at eight o'clock in the morning, hundreds of people stood waiting outside the camp, most of them women, many with children in their arms. At a quarter to four in the afternoon we (Company Eight) had to line up outside of sleeping quarters. At five to four we were brought to the door of the dining room, as the visitors to the prisoners of Company Seven were filing out. A little girl holding on to her mother's hand kept turning her head to look back into the dining room and asked, sobbing, "Why doesn't he come with us? Why isn't he coming home?"

Sharp at four we entered the dining room and were seated along one side of the tables which had been placed end to end to divide the room in two. Our backs were to the doors and windows and we could not see the visitors until they began filing past us. Generally the prisoner recognized his relatives before they recognized him. Nearly all of us had visitors. Near me sat August Mahnke, whose mother came. She opened her bag and laid out on the table in front of him a sausage, a bar of chocolate, five packs of cigarettes and a home-made cake. He did not thank her. She too did not know how to open the conversation. Finally she said, "Father has gotten old. He's sorry that you got along so badly. He sends his regards."

She drew her sleeve over her eyes. Mahnke leaned across the table and took her hand in his. I thought, there is nothing more tragic than these old workingwomen. For thirty or forty years they have slaved in the tread-mill of capitalism, brought up children in the hope that some day their lot would be better than their parents'. And now, on the eve of death, they see their children hopelessly in the claws of that power which has already destroyed their own lives. Yet they do not complain, they do not reproach their children, even when they do not understand their actions. A son, a daughter is in difficulties (when were there not difficulties?) and they help them.

A pale, haggard-faced woman passed by me, obviously in the last stages of pregnancy. Laboriously she steered her ungainly body down the room, and was two steps by me before I suddenly recognized her.

"Anna!" I cried, leaping up. She turned, and was obliged to look twice to convince herself that it was I. We clasped hands across the table.

"I'm here as your wife," she said quickly, having made certain that no guard was standing near. "First, I'm to tell you that we're all well. Your mother sends you this and there's a trifle from me as well. I've got something from her too. But I've got to tie my shoe first. Heavens, is my belly heavy! Let me put my foot up on the bench here."

Thc toe of her shoe bumped against my leg. I reached down, felt a paper, and thrust it into my pocket.

"I could not come that time," she said. "I was too far gone with this. But we got your letter and everything you wanted was done. Your old apartment has been rented but they gave me your furniture as your supposed wife and nothing war missing-not even the list. And how are things with you?"

"Just the same. Perhaps a shade worse at the moments Thc amnesty's haunting the place ant doing all sorts of mischief."

"Do you think you'll come under it?"

"I have no idea."

"Helling thinks your time's up."

"Is that so?" I managed to retain my composure. But it was all clear now. Anna had got in touch with Helling and my blonde SS-man was Helling's contact here.

"Helling thinks," Anna continued in the same level tone, "that if you're not included in this batch, you'll be released not later than the middle or end of January. It can't take much longer. It mustn't take much longer." The "mustn't" was faintly stressed. I tried to read her face. "Otto's sick too."

"Since when?" I felt my knees turning to water.

"A week ago. He's in the same hospital in Berlin where you were that time."

It was only now that I realized how strong had been my unacknowledged hope of a speedy release; only now, when that hope collapsed. Otto had been caught. Caught at the same work I had been doing up to the time of my arrest. It was probable that the Secret Police would come upon material incriminating me as well. I could not help thinking what lay in store for me when they found out that I had lied at my hearings. Anna saw what was passing through my mind.

"There's nothing to get upset about. The medical examination takes time, you know, and besides you can't tell whether they'll be able to locate the trouble. Just the same, it would be wonderful if you could--" I prodded her with my foot. Stormleader von Zaskowsky, in civilian attire, was standing right behind her. Without a quiver she finished her sentence: "-be released. Who knows how my confinement's going to turn out or whether I'll ever see you again?"

"Nowadays," I remarked smugly, "with the clinics so well equipped and our government so sorely in need of children, women shouldn't worry about confinements."

The fat fairy was apparently charmed by my conscientiousness in the matter of providing the state with cannon fodder. He surveyed me for a moment before resuming; his leisurely progress.

Do you know any more about how it happened?" I

"A perfectly stupid accident. They caught him in a block raid ³ and took him along to the Alex ⁴ because he couldn't give a satisfactory account of himself. They discovered there who he was."

"Do they have anything on him?"

"We don't know."

"How do you know Helling?"

"He came to me for information about you and some other friends."

"Did he say anything about what steps I ought to take to bring about my release?"

"He said you'd hear from him shortly. That's all I know. Except that you can talk to Stetten about it. He gave me explicit instructions to tell you that."

"And how are things with you, Anna? What do you hear from Erich?"

"He's dead."

I wanted to say something comforting, but could think of nothing to say. Her husband had been arrested in the spring. Now they had killed him. And she hadn't been able to do a thing to help him. He had died alone in one of the torture cells.

"Everything's going to be different, Anna."

What senseless babble! Erich would never come back.

For the first time I saw a look of despair on her face.

A sudden stir passed through the ranks at the tables. All heads turned toward the lower end of the room, where the guard was leading one of the prisoners away. Zaskowsky had overheard him talking to his wife of the treatment we received at camp. For a moment the room was paralyzed into silence; then some children began to cry. It was obvious that the incident had upset the troopleader on duty, whom we knew as a quiet person, loath to make life unnecessarily difficult for the prisoners. He didn't relish having the Christmas visit terminated in this fashion. But Zaskowsky was his superior officer and he had no choice but to hold his tongue. All he could do was to prolong our half hour by five minutes, after which we had to leave the dining room.

The beds in our sleeping quarters were strewn with packages. Even the few prisoners for whom no visitors had appeared had at least received packages.

Schultz called me over to his bunk and displayed, beaming, two huge sausages sent by Bertha. Beside them lay another package that he didn't know what to make of. He kept spelling out the name of the sender. The address was correct: Richard Schultz, Company Eight, No.467--but the sender? He couldn't recall the name. The name meant nothing to him.

"I don't know it. Damned if I know it!"

"Well, take a look and see what's inside."

He unwrapped it, and drew from the tissue paper three large, bright handkerchiefs, two packs of tobacco, fort y cigarettes, apples, another sausage, and a half pound of butter in an aluminum container.

"Well, you won't starve to death at any rate," I told him.

"Still, I'd like to know who sent it," he kept repeating, racking his head in an effort to unravel the mystery. It was only after I came to the bunks of the eight comrades from Priegnitz that I was able to give him a clue.

"See?" they boasted, stealthily exhibiting the Rote Hilfe ⁵ packages sent them under fabricated names by their local group. "Our fellows are right on the job."

Schultz was overjoyed that his little local I.W.A. group was still functioning and hadn't forgotten him.

In the twilight of the second story I read Kathe's letter. How good it was to see her handwriting again! she wrote that she was with comrades in Paris, penniless but well, and was even hoping to be able to find a job. Only I was please not to worry about her. She was sure we'd be seeing each other soon, and she was longing for the day when she could stick her nose into my stupid face again.

These visiting days had their two sides. Our friends' departure left us in a state of heightened unrest. A thousand rumors and bits of news, a thousand hopes and disappointments had been carried in, creating an atmosphere of anxiety which made our existence still harder to bear.

On Christmas Day, during the visiting period of Company Four, the commandant suddenly made his appearance in the dining room, accompanied by his staff and two gentlemen in civilian clothes. The prisoner who saw him first bellowed, "Attention!" and everyone jumped up. Even the women rose in confusion.

"At ease!" The commandant acknowledged the tribute with the stateliness of a cavalry captain. He ordered the prisoners to clear the tables and line up in the courtyard. There the adjutant read aloud the names of the prisoners who, under the terms of the amnesty, were to be released the following day. Fifty-eight names were read. More than ninety men had been brought to camp since the news of the amnesty was first published and no prisoners had been released. There were more prisoners in the camp than before. The fifty-eight included Schultz, Felix from the shoemaker's shop, Fritz, Kuleke the cabinetmaker, and myself. We saw the faces of the seven hundred left behind, and could not rejoice.

The two gentlemen in civilian clothes were officials of the Secret Police, who had come to impress upon us the significance of the amnesty. They both made speeches.

"We don't expect you all to leave camp as confirmed National Socialists, but we're sure that you'll make your way through our new Germany with your eyes open. You'll see for yourselves that we've rid the country, once and for all, of the corruption of the old system, and given the worker the place he deserves in the community. We needn't remind you that this amnesty declared by the government is a sign of its impregnable strength. Woe to the enemy who continues to stir up the people against the state! And woe to any of you who ever again sets himself to oppose the will of our Leader, Reichskanzler Adolf Hitler! There will be no mercy for you the second time.

In a brief and spirited address the commandant exhorted us to confute the false rumors circulated concerning his camp at home and abroad, and to denounce those who were responsible for such atrocity lies. This concluded the dignified performance.

There was a great hubbub in our sleeping quarters that night. Despite the keen disappointment caused by the amnesty swindle no one begrudged us our release. We gave away our fine Christmas packages to the others. Schultz gazed mournfully after his three sausages. Most of us packed our belongings into our cartons that evening as to be in readiness to leave camp at any moment I gave most of my food to the Schieber, who had not been amnestied. When I asked him about the prospects of his own release, he said, "I think my time's up."

"Did your family get word?"

"Not that. Whom would they send word to, with my wife being constantly on the go, my older son in prison, and the younger abroad?"

"Then why do you think they'll let you out soon?"

"I've got to go to Leipzig. ⁶ I'm to be tried for high treason on January 16. And that's something I'd just as lief get out of."

"If that's it, I can help you," I said. "We'll get hold of Stetten."

"I think I'll do it alone."

"Have you made any preparations?"

"There's not much to prepare. I've thought out how it could be done."

"From here or from work?"

"From work. I'll report for duty with a forest squad and make off first thing in the morning."

"Have you any money?"

"Two marks eighty."

"That won't take you far."

"No, but I'm relying on my two hours' head start. After all, there's nothing else for me to do."

I advised him against it. The thing needed organizing and I persuaded him that I had a better plan. I told him that Stetten would return from Berlin with further information. But since I could no longer be there and Stetten had as yet approached no one but me, contact must be established between him and the Schieber. I wrote a note, saying that I had been released and that the Schieber was taking my place. The Schieber was to get the note into Stetten's hands. Before going to bed we went over all the details again.

Next morning the men scheduled for release stood outside the office from seven o'clock on, waiting to be dismissed. We were weighed again. Everyone had gained; according to the camp statistics no prisoner ever lost weight there. The Black Shirts were amiably disposed and refrained from buffeting us when we entered the room with the query as to whether we might enter. We were given two long declarations to sign, one for the Secret Police, one for the camp administration, in which we bound ourselves to commit no further offense, either by word or deed, written or spoken, against the government, and waived all claims to compensation for any damage or loss sustained during our period under protective arrest. We likewise swore that we had suffered no harm and that we acknowledged any measures taken against us by the state to have been fully and wholly justified. No one hesitated for a moment to sign this document. We were given red release cards which stated that we had been kept in protective custody over such and such a period of time. We were to present them to our local police authorities. Since we were being released on parole we were to remain under police supervision and report to headquarters daily until further notice.

Twenty-three other workers were leaving camp at the same time with us. They were being taken to Hanover in police cars to be tried for high treason. The huge camp gate clanged behind them.

We made our way through the small door, past the guard, into the open. No one turned his head to look back. No one said a word. The peace of the holiday season lay over the little town. A few of the guards, off duty, were sauntering about the streets. We made our farewells at the station and each of us went his own way.

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